New Poem – The Convergence


she stands among the ancient trees,

hair fluttering protestingly over her full breasts,

strings of beads resting around her neck,

draped in red cotton her dark skin glistening in sweat,

her kohl eyes like fiery embers,

a sliver of sun on her forehead,

behind her, smeared in symbolic vermilion,

the Goddess sits cross-legged,

leaning against the matted roots of a tree,

defiant, wise, independent,

the power stemming from her womb,

non-conformist, non-submissive.

from a quiet corner I watch them,

fierce, unapologetic; both born of the soil,

somewhere beyond the hills a river turns red,

an embodiment of the eternal truth –

sa’ham asmi

the Aashad clouds gather

beating their ancient drums

as the earth receives its first rain

Haunted – Two Poems


1.

She was like that house upon the hill

that no one wants to live in

the one whose scarred walls

hold dark secrets and whose

darkened windows are like

empty eye sockets

that silent, uneasy house

which even the poltergeists avoid

no one ever goes there

but when you pass it there is

always a suggestion of movement

the sound of a door closing

a flicker of light in the emptiness—

haunted and haunting at the same time

2.

We were sitting at the edge of the river

exactly where we’d met a few days before.

 “There is a deathly silence today,” he said,

“‘Deathly’ is the wrong adjective for silence.

Death is not silent.

It is more vociferous than life and anyway

there is never complete silence,

the mind is continuously moving through

the quiet of the inanimate.”

“That’s rubbish.

Silent as the dead is a known idiom,” he replied.

“It is, so is the quote, ‘“silence speaks louder than words.’”

“Have you ever been to a cemetery, a morgue—

or better still a graveyard,

or stood ‘quietly’ where the dead are put to flames?

You must.

The noise of the dry bones overrides everything.

There is nothing louder than dead air,

a dead relationship, dead dreams, dead promises.

Death, my friend, is anything but silent.” I paused.

“Death may not be silent but silence can still be deathly

and that’s what I said” he insisted,

though I felt his conviction wavering a little.

“Silence is not just lack of movement or sound.

 It is the same with death.”

No More A Trophy Wife


Sharp as mustard

his words stung and left

a trail of poison in my veins

the marks that you see on my face

are the scarred gashes of my  heart

parts of my body hurt

even with  friction of the clothes

I’m used to the metallic taste

of the human blood

“Perform” he used to say

his sandpaper lips

corroded my skin

rapacious, savage, fire-breathing monster

with tongue whipping in and out like a snake

his fangs exposed and dripping

large paws groping, trusting , tearing

mauling and ripping my soul

confused, deranged, wet and slimy

I lugged my pain streaked carrion

meticulously concealed

nothing but  a battered rag doll

with a wound between the legs

who says “time is a healer”

it torments, prolongs

I mulled memory wine for long

filled glasses, raised toasts

got drunk

and then one day

sprawled on the cold floor

I packed my dreams

gathered my hopes

threw you in the trash

crumpled ball of ink smudged paper

No more a sacrificial lamb

or a tasty morsel

a part of your feast

No more a nauch girl

a marionette

a trophy wife

to flaunt

and

keep encased

behind concrete walls

when not in use

I would rather

live on the streets

under the open sky

but will not be used, abused

humiliated, I won’t

become your trophy wife

I won’t succumb, I’ll fight

I will give  up

but won’t give in

my soul is hardened

I am a rock

Poetry Challenge : a learning excercise-1


My mentor and friend Kris Saknussemm gave me a challenge to write an extended poem, “relying on some of your more practically directed prose abilities that incorporates all of the following words and/or phrases:

Compulsion
Sacred
Mud
Disgust
Glass
Vacuum
Music
Orchid
Misunderstanding
Orgasm
Echo
The sorrow of dinosaurs”

a part of my learning process and an effort to improve myself and my writing.

Kris has been kind enough to take some time out from his busy schedule and teach me. It is an honor for me and I am deeply touched and thankful to him for all the advice, suggestions and critiques. each of his teaching is a precious gem to treasure.

As they say

When the student is ready the master appears

Thank you Kris for being my light, guiding and enriching my life. I won’t fail you for learning for me is a lifetime process.

Here is the poem I wrote

A life
gripped in a moment
Ecstasy, rapture
Release
Bodies consumed
A little death & then
rebirth

Pants, groans, gasp
Music to the ears
Throb, rise, fall
Curtains

yet another Faked orgasm

Crushed orchids,
Stained sheets
She rolls over
Disgust jets through
The Vacuum inside

What a performer!
Down to dawn
Non entity

Sex, a compulsion
Repulsive yet Sacred
A tool to feed
Four hungry mouths

An echo